Of course for many months because of his stroke we were unable to hear what flooded our dear friends mind yet even with his silence we understood those last few weeks that our Joe was finished. He no longer wished, hoped, desired to live. Who actually could blame him. Joe, in his own way made a decision to die and for whatever reason clung to the only way that was in his power…he decided to starve himself to death.

He refused water and food.

The staff reached out to us for help. “He won’t take anything by mouth, please ask him to eat.” We stood by his bed and at first begged and pleaded with Joseph to eat. Giving us his “Joe Grin” we finally understood it was no use. The man had pride and even though he lived as a homeless man on many streets in America for 30 some years, Joe had dignity and “he” had made a decision on how it was going to end.

We no longer begged or pleaded with him to conform to what seemed like a reasonable request…”LIVE darn it…” Yet we couldn’t help quietly whispering to ourselves as we walked down the long hall to the lobby as we left, “live for what?” Joe wants to die and we had to accept his silent request.

That was a year ago for Joe, Tony, Bubba, Tony Boy and Bruce. Two years ago for Tim. Three years ago for Calvin and Jeff. Oh how the list could go on and with each name I sometimes sit and wonder if enough was said…Today Don lays in the hospital and we talk about calves outside his 6th floor hospital window. We also talk about saying goodbye.

As a writer I have come to understand that words are precious. They many times to me…are a song that soars into the highs and lows that no man has yet been able to hit with their natural voice by singing. Words command the orchestra  to lift the instrument of a heart to play a sound unable to be heard with the natural ear. Words…

I stood by Joes bed so many days touching his arm with my hand quietly telling him that “I will miss you…” The water that filled our eyes began to sing the song only God can sing inside of our hearts yet I sit here thinking… did I say enough? Do we ever? I now stand next to Don… “I’m going to miss you Don..” he smiles.

This morning I thought about the words I miss you. They are fragile words. They cause two people to remember a time that they alone only know yet so often pain jerks somewhere deep inside because we recall a name and know we are the only one that misses the what was…

When I speak the words to Don. When I said the words to Joe and before I hung up the phone that day with Jeff, I said the words…I miss you. Whenever someone says them to me it always takes me to a time that only them and I have shared and it; simple words, wrap around my heart and make it feel warm just one more time. It brings a smile to my face and for a few minutes that seem like a forever causes the next 20 steps just a little easier. I miss you…

I don’t know if much of what I just said has any meaning to my readers. I’m not really sure if it even matters however somewhere inside myself I can not help but wonder…have  I said enough? 

Joe and I talked about heaven. I reminded him who was already there and to remember to tell Jesus not to forget about me. I have sat next to Don…we talk about heaven, we talk about who he will see. I remind him to remind Jesus to not forget about me… And Don??? “I will miss you, I am so glad to be given the chance to know you… to laugh and cry with you. Don’t forget me Don… I love you.”

Words! They are a song if we simply remember to take the time to be quiet and allow the Author Himself, the Giver of life to sing them into another’s life by feeling with our hearts, crying our own tears and whispering into someones ear before the final day says goodbye…”I miss you..” 

“Christine!!!!” I yelled out my truck window this morning. When she heard her name she looked my way and broke out into a big toothless smile as I turned the truck off.

I passed her on the bridge as I was crossing into Columbus this morning. On the streets she is known as “Two Step.” For whatever reason she takes to steps forward and one step back. How she does it and sway from side to side is beyond me however she does get to where she needs to go.

Christine is from New York but likes the south because the winters are easier she says in her New York draw… Our girl is homeless, mentally ill and has health problems in her legs which is why I suppose she takes her two steps forward and one step back. “Two Step!”

I reached over and grabbed the necklace and perfume I pulled from a box of goodies my sister Chris sent from Pennsylvania. I had set them aside for just her and I was hoping I would find her today.

Standing in the road I held the perfume out to her and said in a cheerful tone…”Merry Christmas Christine!” Her eyes lit up like the stars in the sky on a clear southern night and danced as small tears rolled across the beauty of blue God graced her with. Her exact words… “Oh, thank you…perfume! I will smell nice.”

If that second could have been frozen into a time where I could have shown the world over and over what the thought of “smelling nice” could really mean I would have given my next breath in order for everyone to see.

I then told her that I had something else. I opened my small plastic bag and pulled out a necklace. Together we straightened it out and as I held it up she looked up to where it hung off my fingers said…”Oh! That is beautiful!” I gently placed it over her head and let it fall across her old worn sweatshirt stained from sleeping on the ground and food. She looked down at her Christmas gift and only said, “Beautiful!”

I asked her how she had been and she told me the other day she went to “the park” to eat. ["The park" is a park in town where the homeless go at a certain time on Saturdays and a church brings them food.] She explained that while eating someone found out it was her birthday. Her voice picked up speed and she started to stutter. My heart began to beat to the rhythm of her words as she explained someone gave her a “beautiful” piece of cake. 

Desperately trying to describe the colors on the icing she fumbled and stammered explaining purple…

My heart began to melt as blue, pink, like blue, sorta lavender slipped from her rose shaped lips. I finally said, “purple?” She said, “Yes, yes purple.” She further went on telling me how blessed she was to get the piece of cake for her birthday and then she glanced and touched her necklace once again. “Now this.” She said. “I am blessed.”

I asked her where she was staying. She said in “The park” when it is warm, but because the nights are getting colder now she walks across the bridge into Phenix City and sleeps in the laundry mat at night. 

I drove into Columbus tonight and stopped at a red light. Dressed with a Santa hat on his head a friend of mine walked up to my truck…James wished me a Merry Christmas as the light turned green. He is homeless and I wondered where he would sleep tonight as I drove away.

I circled back around by the “Y” and could see Timmy still on his bench…again wondering when he was going to head off to his “spot!” I made my right to head back across the river to go home and on the far end I could make out that “Two Step” was heading back home. (To the laundry mat)

Seeing ahead of her I noticed 4 men were walking towards her. Being Christmas Eve the streets are empty and I intently watched in the darkness that shadowed over Christine because of a broken street light that the men would simply pass her by.

As I turned to my right I sighed after seeing the men kept walking and Christine never looked up. She was alright.

“Not a creature was stirring…not even a mouse.” Where is Christine’s family tonight? When she was a little girl and recited “Twas the Night Before Christmas” did she ever dream she would be a mentally ill woman living on the streets in a southern town calling a park and laundry mat home?

Did she think her days would consist of walking cement staring at the ground? Did she think she was blessed to smell pretty, have a “beautiful” necklace around her neck and be able to eat a piece of cake a stranger handed her because it was her birthday?

It is Christmas Eve, I’m sure by now Timmy made it to his spot, James tossed his head from side to side showing off his Santa hat all the way down Broad and Christine… has she gone to sleep?

My friends from the streets won’t dream “visions of sugar plums” tonight. They sleep with one eye open hoping nobody will put a knife in their backs and Christine? Well her chances of being raped sky-rocket on the streets. The men take advantage of her mental illness…to me that is rape.

 I looked at my Christmas tree and gifts underneath after I got home. I heard Christmas songs coming out of the radio in the kitchen and wondered what blessed really means? No quick answers came to me and I suppose I will have to get back to you on that. Maybe it means different things to us all…

But you know what? I think Christine comes pretty close to what God says. It’s a box of perfume and a necklace from Pennsylvania. A piece of cake she thinks someone brought just for her. It’s me bowing my head praying Christine sleeps sweetly tonight and that nobody touches her in a foul way…

I received a gift from my friend today. It was watching her beautiful blue eyes moisten with tears of gratitude.

Merry Christmas Christine!!!!

I am asked often, “Why do you and Missy go to the gym 30 minutes early?” If they only knew…

We park about half a city block from the gym door. Getting from our cars and inside the gym is an adventure. Take for instance yesterday morning. We get out when suddenly I hear our names being called from across the street. We turn in the direction of the voice and it is Clifford needing a ski cap. Oh, if it was only that easy.

I open my cover on the back of my pick-up truck and reach in to grab the ski cap and turn just as Clifford leans over the tailgate wanting to know if he can have a coat; recently a guy and his wife blessed us with about 6 brand new winter coats… I look up at Clifford and say something about what was wrong with the one he was wearing? Nothing of course but he wanted another color.

People think women are picky about their clothes…you have no idea how picky a homeless man is when it comes to “mismatch style”/// anyway, after trying on a few coats we finally settled on a grey and I told Clifford it went well with his brown skin. “Sold!” I thought that if I had only thought of that 15 minutes ago. Could have saved some time here.

The alacarte of questions is long and could fill a book. Depending on the man and how close we are we can be asked for 55 cents from one to a dollar from the next one. A pair of gloves could be a need when over to the side I focus on a fella that seems too shy to ask as I hand out a pair to him as well… he thanks me as he quickly moves on. Never dull.

Often we play the game “don’t look.” If our fellas sitting on park benches that line the sidewalk to the entrance of the gym have their backs to us we play “Don’t look at them!” Sometimes it works because at 10 in the morning they are already too drunk to even notice us, other times they’re still working their hustle and haven’t made enough for even 1 beer. Those are the difficult journeys from car to entrance…

The list of wants and needs get fired off…politely mind you. Mike, I need a dollar. Timmy… 55 cents. Donnie wants to call his brother Jack. Shaky Roy is usually calling out loudly “Baby Girl” if he is drunk and if sober??? He is extremely quiet and sick. Clifford loves to laugh and have a good time but Walter wastes time needing pathetic hugs to just make himself feel like he has done something. Don’t run across Street Mary, she will talk your ear off for hours if you let her while Christine slowly shuffles by barely saying a hello. Bob and (white) Steven act like they like us and we do the same. While  (black) Steven I shoot up a high-five and practice my strut…

Missy and I ran into a fella that was on the streets today at McDonald’s. He was there with his wife and son. He is doing well he said. Quit drinking and no longer wants to go back to the streets. I hold my breath…Woody has been on and off the streets for 7 years.

Today as Woody and I talked we recalled many of the men. I asked him if he knew “mouthwash” Joe, Tony Boy, Bubba, (Black) Tony had died this year? He was shocked. I asked if he knew Don Juan was in a nursing home not ever expected to come out again? He again appeared sad as he softly said he didn’t know that… I told him, “Be good Woody…” as I walked away I found myself so thankful he didn’t know any of this. The little world I travel in called “having homeless friends” is only why I know. Nobody else really knows my friends die pretty much alone every year. I know, and God knows… ahhh but life goes on.

Tonight Missy was pulling into the gym parking lot to where I left my truck earlier this morning. I noticed as we drove up the street that the gym was closed, all the cars had left and there sat my little white truck. All the men on the streets know the back doesn’t lock and inside under the cover of the bed are coats, hats, gloves, blankets, some jeans and sweatshirts. I honestly can’t tell you what all I do have in there. But you know what? Never ever have any of our fellas ever opened that cover up and taken a single thing out without asking first. NEVER! It is left alone on the streets near them often.

As we drove closer to the parking lot Missy and I noticed Mike and John walking across the parking lot passing my truck. I wanted to tell Missy to “Hit the Gas!!!!” I knew that these guys were not going to just let me get out of Missy’s car and into my truck. I was right!!!

Mike and John only wanted a smile, a laugh and even a quick hug. John asked if I had any food and I felt awful that I had nothing. I knew earlier a group were feeding men up at a park but John didn’t make it. He barely was making it across the pavement.

I felt sad as I pulled off. That time of the evening they were heading towards their “spots” (bushes, old buildings/houses, under bridges or porches on the back of buildings downtown) to go to sleep for the day. Tomorrow will be a repeat of their today. Mike told me as I  was about to roll up my window that the police just took Donnie to jail. I smiled and told him that he just got out yesterday when John interrupted and asked me to pray for Daffney. (Johns girlfriend) He hasn’t seen her in two weeks and is worried. I told John I would as I finished rolling up the window and drove away.

My mind played over and over how concerned John was about his Daffney. I am too, she is very special to me. I found myself shooting up Second Ave. looking in areas she might be knowing I honestly had no clue which crack house she would maybe hit or even if I was on the right side of town.

The wind has started to blow harder tonight and the tempreture has dropped to 48. When I brought my few bags of groceries into the house I mentioned to my son that it’s going to be a  cold night tonight under the bridge… thoughts of the men… they never go away.

Carl had my attention that day we sat talking because I quickly found myself somewhat troubled by his voice as well as his words.  Carl needed to talk to me? Carl is a minister. A minister from all exterior appearances seems to be doing rather well… His ministry is well, his personal life seems in tact yet my friend who always has a spark of joy in his every word woven with warmth and wit seemed very troubled.

I dropped my hat of common thread we both share and took a breath knowing that something was wrong. I asked him what it was.

There is no way possible to take a 60 minute conversation word for word so please indulge me with recalling and saying my friend’s heart…

Where is the church Jaye? I mean, where has it gone. Stuttering and stumbling over words that seemed to have never been rehearsed or even penned for a sermon I prayed “Please God, give him the ability to say on.”

He explained that the other night he went to a church service of a friend. At that service were other ministers he hadn’t seen in years. They asked how he was doing and made small talk about their congregations and the great work God seems to be doing.

Tears moistened my friends eyes as he went on and explained that he lied. He told his friends that he was doing well and that he was content with where God seemed to have him at the moment. I sat a bit uneasy now only due to the fact I had no idea what may be said next, yet my attention was on very high alert and interest peaked.

He said that he lied and as the service began the pastor started out by talking about prayers that had been prayed and ended with the praise reports of “answered prayers.” Carl said he sat quietly looking around at the excitement of the congregation. The young and old stirred in the pews as hope began to build from another mans hope, believing God in prayer.

However my sweet friend emotionally painted a picture with his words as he continued on explaining that as he sat in his spot on the pew with fellow ministers he began to wonder what would happen if he stood and walked to the front of the church. He said Jaye, “Do you have any idea what I might have wanted to say?” Tears now raced down my face as I shuttered, thinking where is my friend? His pain was beyond explanation. No smile, no joy no warmth…Carl wasn’t home.

I swallowed the knot that wouldn’t release from the middle of my throat and told Carl, I did not know what he had wanted to say…

He said I wanted to say loudly and boldly in front of strangers as well as ministers I have known for years that I sat outside in the parking lot for 15 minutes trying to decide if I should leave. I didn’t feel as if I belonged there. I came inside and lied to friends; after perfecting the fake smile on my face in the rearview mirror, that I am fine.

I am hurting and have been hurting for months. Nobody knows. I have felt safer that way. In the church if you tell or allow someone to know your flaws or that you are weak they begin their long list”s” of how we can fix so and so. Oh… but it does get better…scripture becomes the weapon of choice and now all you have to do is accept that it is so and all your troubles will go away.

He said that he wanted to stand there and further say that he lately sits in his office with his pistol in his hands. My heart jumped into his and I wept. Oh dear God I thought…”Where has the church gone?” Carl said that he emotionally can take no more but, the holidays will be difficult for so many reasons… however Thanksgiving and Christmas is one reason why he hasn’t lifted the gun up in his hand. He didn’t want the holidays difficult for his family and friends. “Besides Jaye, I really don’t want to die, I just want to stop hurting.”

My mouth became numb and I hoped that my tears said what was in my mind. I felt for several seconds I was sitting talking to Job (from the Bible) His comforters said nothing as he mourned and for the first time I understood the why…

Half embarrassed and half shaken I asked Carl what brought this all on. He explained in detail about a situation which I promised I would never repeat; about the crush and blow that fell his way, it broke him apart. As his explanation escaped from a secret place deep inside himself  some understanding settled around my mind…but death Carl?

He continued on ignoring my last question as if the dam had opened and this may be the only chance he had to allow someone safe hold his pain, even if it was brief. My friend made a statement that burnt a hole straight through me. “Why Jaye, was I able to go into that service, sit there and listen. Greet my old friends and walk out without not 1 person knowing I may end my life that tonight? He said he went home and cried and felt more alone than ever.

I could only say “I am so sorry.” Carl then said he wondered how we as ministers for God Almighty assigned to hear the masters voice for His people and not 1 heard God say anything about me… I could only cry.

He wonders how many people have come through his own doors, needing help in such a desperate way and that he never saw. We both hung our heads in shame. Where has the church gone? Do we find out someone we have been entrusted with the Masters care has ended their life through a phone call or obituary?

On he went…”Will God in heaven bring a man to the brink of insanity or the edge of death in order for him to see and feel again?” My Lord; I thought, is it possible. Is it so possible that we work and strive so aimlessly that we lose our own way and call it you? All I could do for hours was cry. “Where has the church gone Jaye?” Carl jolted me out of my thoughts with that question again.

For many days now I have thought about my conversation with my friend. I have bowed my knee low understanding possibly for the first time we as Christians way more often than not play with what we perceive as God. Is it to have great gain not so much as financially but is it for selfishness to prove we have obtained? What would be the worth in that to say I hear God and my friend is dead?

Carl for now holds onto the fact it is the Holidays. We are in constant contact and have discussed ways of help as he walks through his own “Shadow of death.” Yet I can not help but wonder are we really our brothers keeper or a baby sitter that when they go away for the day we quickly shoot a prayer towards heaven and ask God to help them as we change the channel on the TV.

Thanksgiving is this week. Christmas in a month. Shoppers are hitting the stores, gifts need to be bought and family and friends make plans to enjoy…they should yet I can not escape from the picture Carl painted for me that day with his words and tears.

He said I will sit at my table and smile come Thanksgiving. I will laugh and enjoy… Christmas I will be there to celebrate the “Reason for the Season” but I know that all I will want for Christmas is to smile just one more time. To feel hope one more time. To shake and rattle every package like a mad man in hopes that someone heard God and gave me my life again.

Carl is doing OK. We give it codes so to speak. How are you Carl? OK… that’s at the bottom, fine is in the middle somewhere and good, well good is what we hope Carl will find from God this year at Christmas.

We talk as much as he wants and he is getting help but it was a very long journey for him to get here and we both know it will take some time to get back. I ask however for all my readers that as you sit at your tables this holiday season to please pray for Carl and for me, that no one will walk past us both ever again and not hear the master say, “Go ask them if they are really, ok.”

Sudden drop in temperature can cause a homeless mans heart to stop. No warm clothes or blankets… well, not real good when they are used to passing out anywhere after a heavy day of drinking which seems to be the norm for our men under a bridge here in my area.

Walking into camp the other afternoon Jake looked up at me from his box he uses as his chair and said, “Ms. Jaye? You have to get him out from under here. He is going to get hurt or die.” I asked him who he was referring to because he motioned to where Johnny and Homer were sleeping. He spoke in a panicked voice as Johnny sat up and greeted me and said “Homer…Ms. Jaye he is going to die if he doesn’t get out of here.”

Asking more questions it seems that the Social Security check that my sweet Homer has been receiving each month has helped none. It has enabled him to stay drunk, way drunk! for a month and a half.

He has eaten very little and hasn’t showered in about 2 months…

Jake has no idea the concern we have had for Homer. We check on him several times a week and find him extremely drunk every single day.

Today when I was about to enter into camp I met up with Jake. As we were walking down the path I asked him how Homer was doing? “Drunk” was his answer.

Homer didn’t make it to the meeting this morning and as Jake, David and Paul came in I looked for our guy. Nobody knew where he was. “Bridge Call” was in order…

Stepping across the planks of boards and old boxes laid out flat that cover mud (their bridge) I stood under the canopy of cement and could hear cars passing overhead.

A new guy was in camp which always makes me cautious. Today I went alone but no matter, if there is someone new that I have never seen out on the streets I always stand where I can face their direction. Just an instinctive way I do things to protect my own safety.

Turns out his name is Tommy and he was fine…

Laying on Johnny’s spot was Chance. I hadn’t seen him since mid summer. Chance lives in fantasy world about the military service. He would have you believe he was a Green Beret. Will go as far to convince you he was a physician.

I do know he spends much of his time in the local mental hospital and after talking to his sister a few years ago by phone, he has never been in the service let alone a physician. However… we had a nice 30 min. of make-believe conversation while Homer sat on his spot unable to stand because his pants were full of diarrhea and urine.

Where do we go from here? God only knows because we have tried to say words that could lead to a way out for Homer every way possible. They fall on the ground. He is unable to hear which is sad and frustrating. I have the way out… it may take some serious suffering to get free from the alcohol. A suffering he wants no part of therefore it is not obtainable.

Homer asked me one day last week. “Why?” “Why what?” I asked him back. Crying, which he does a lot, he said, “why do I do what I do?” I am not exactly sure how I said this but I tried to get him to understand, until he sobered up, he will never find the why…

Sadness swept over his already solemn face. He stopped crying and only responded with, “yep you are right.” End of conversation.

So often; I and many of the men like Homer have danced. We dance on the edge of life and death. Suddenly the death march begins to play and we slowly sway to the sound of an unknown force pulling and pushing us as we move awkwardly on the dirt and trash under the bridge, seeing who will give out first and sit down.

With Homer, our dance has been ending quicker than I would like. The force beating me to be able to inch my dear friend to the side of life artfully convinces him to give up our dance and sit down. The devil does not play fair… I on the other hand reach for my partner and beg him to stand and dance one more time as I hear the song softly, slowly creep its way into camp. The drum of the death march pounds out a rhythm I know so well. I yell inside to God as I cover my ears and eyes praying for it to go away. It isn’t coming for me… it no longer listens to me… it is coming for my friend.

I finished my military conversation with Dr. Chance and walked over to Jake (who does not drink) still sitting on his box and asked him to please make sure that Homer stays covered up tonight.

I glanced over to Homers spot as he laid his head down and told him goodnight. It was only 3 o’clock in the afternoon which means nothing to my friend anymore. He told me goodnight as he closed his eyes. I told him as I turned to walk back across the mens bridge made out of scraps, “Sweet dreams Homer.” He never said a word.

The others sitting at the table at my office in the Downtown Burger King… weren’t really listening. I heard however and I asked what was wrong with what I had just said? Jake responded with something about I called them gentlemen!

My mind quickly raced through the information I have gathered over the years with my homeless friends trying to understand if what I had said may have been an offence or not.

In seconds I reasoned that he was just simply letting me know that he appreciated being called something nice instead of a “homeless alcoholic, good for nothing, bum!!!”

I am a believer in how words spoken can be powerful. They can build a heart to explore all that God and life has to offer or they can rip a human soul apart and send a person to a prison of worthlessness. I see enough worthlessness every single day I drive through town. I expect my words to have value to a man or woman who seems to have “forgotten which direction was I suppose to go?” That is scary!

Tuesday mornings addiction recovery class was small. I had met Jake once before but this Tuesday Homer brought along a new friend named John.

John has lived on the streets for 12 years. Once while sitting there listening to the stories these two characters were recalling I felt sorry for the people I know that have never sat down and listened to a homeless man talk. Educational to say the very least but probably more than the knowledge you can gather of how “homelessness” works and functions in larger cities such as Atlanta, New York, New Orleans…Chicago, you find out why homeless at all?

Do I think a story here and there has been stretched like a good fish story? Ummm, maybe. But what I have learned is why do they want to lie? I mean I am nobody, and I am certainly nobody to impress with a<<< I was beaten and left for dead under a bridge in Atlanta Georgia>>> No, I normally hear I was popped 3 times and when I was able to stand again I threw one that connected and we called it quits.

Most if not many of my guys do not want to beat to kill! They throw a punch to survive, they steal a sleeping bag to stay warm and they shuffle into a homeless camp at night to talk before they put their heads down on the top of their arms as they close their eyes to sleep.

My homeless camp is the downtown Burger King and about 98% homeless men and women in the Columbus, Phenix City area know, Mama Jaye is there to talk.

When the men first sat down after spilling much of their coffee…not use to drinking at a table, seriously. The word regret was spoken by somebody. Now you must understand how our meetings go. Many subjects get knocked about when suddenly a word or subject will pop out at me and even if 10 minutes has passed by one of those “stories…” I take it back to the “pop!”

This Tuesday morning silence was spoken after that word was said and I quickly looked at Jake and asked him, “What do you regret?” He paused a few minutes after saying that there were so many things…

I helped him along with another question. “Jake? What goes over and over in your mind when it is just you and yourself?” After another long 2 minutes he lowered his head and cleared his voice and said…”I should have been there.”

Because of the seriousness in his voice I softened my words to allow him the comfort of telling us more. Jake then told us the day his wife died. After several minutes of personal details John interrupted and said…”My wife died too…cervical cancer. It took me 2 years to get over it. She was just 58.” Homer began to cry when he mentioned the time many years ago about a woman he met. Her name was April. She was pregnant when he met and fell in love with her. April also got cancer; while pregnant, and refused cancer treatment because of her unborn child. She died a short while after her baby was born…the child lived.

To women this may sound like a time to just have a boo hoo time. The men left much behind after realising there was nothing left for them after the deaths…they walked away and into the streets and never looked back.

John spoke up rather loudly and said, “If you divorce or break up with someone you can go see them…you can call. I can never call again. I will never hear her voice.” Jake simply shook his head agreeing with Johns words. Homer cried.

The words that didn’t get told that day may sound a little like this and if the guys were here with me as I type I do believe they would agree. “Say what you need to say while you still can.”

Way too often we assume that someone knows. No, not really. Do they wish they said more? Do they wish they held more? Do they wish they got angry less and smiled more? I am sure they would say yes to all of this but maybe more than words… do they wish they could turn back the hand of time? silence>>>>

I do have the privilege that many do not have and that is to meet some of the most interesting human beings on the face of this earth we all live on. I hear their lives spoken in rustic, edgy words. Those words wrap my heart with the hope that maybe… possibly… they may heal. It causes mine to feel soft amidst the slang and hardness I many times listen to, but that is OK! I can not think of a better exchange.

Way too often I have to write so many sad, unsettling stories about the men and the streets. Truth is… it is not a life that many can adapt to and those that can; well, they get caught up in a time warp of devastation that seems to hold them captive until they die.

On the other hand…these men are my friends and with any friendship there is a building time of communication that you share lives. In that sharing you find out so so much. You cry and you also laugh. The men are hilarious!!!

Once in a while when they get drunk I find myself laughing my head off from their behavior or how they can recall a story. If I’m not careful a “religious” spirit creeps up on me and whispers at me…”you shouldn’t let them think what they are saying while drunk is funny!” Says who??? I’m a Christian, so are they. I’m sober, they are drunk. It’s the only difference and they are comedians on one beer or 6…

On this particular day pictured above, Donnie had just been released from jail his umpteenth time this year. He had found these glasses before he went to jail. Problem was they had no arms.

While in jail he ingeniously twisted plastic and somehow created what is seen above.

To top it off, while walking from the jail to Broadway downtown he found 2 harmonicas in boxes. (Shaky) Roy jumped into the picture when I asked Donnie to pose. Roy was beaten the night before for no reason and was sporting a black eye.

To many they may say “pitiful,” to us this is so “typical.”

Roy shows the rawness of finding a place to sleep on the streets can look like the next day. Donnie on this day depicts the reality of getting through any bad situation…laugh!

I could not do what we do day after day, week after week without being able to see the tenderness laughter can bring to such a catastrophic existence called the “streets” of America. I love these guys!

Pastor Freddie with Roy and Donnie. They had just finished praying.

OK back to my story about Homer and his SSI and turning 62. A few months back I took my lap top under my arm and headed to our office at Burger King in downtown Columbus Ga. Our office is the back table in the room off the main dining area. A cup of coffee and nobody says a thing.

Homer met us that day and Missy filled out his application. Because of Homers alcoholism it is difficult for him to read and follow simple instructions therefore he becomes confused and nervous. That’s where we come in. Repeating simple questions over and over with total patience and laughter we finished a 45 min. questionnaire in about an hour and a half.

My motto has been and probably always will be…”do what you have to do but have some great fun while you’re doing it.” Believe you me it has worked time and time again especially when I have literally wanted to wring one of the guys necks. I’ll say something funny and they’ll crack up and we get the job done.

A few weeks after completing the on-line interview we received a letter stating Homer was approved and would get his first check September 22nd.

Oh how we have been very concerned. His monthly check is a very large amount and for sure we have watched men die having much less in their pockets by going on drinking binges.

Homer has counted the days off since he heard the news the check was as sure as here. I on the other hand started planting seeds. “Homer, you know you can get off the streets with that kind of money. Ahhh, We need to start looking around at what a place for you might cost.” Oh I talked about it often which in turn stirred a smile and a tiny glimmer of hope.

Last winter Homer almost died a few times. Once he ended up in the hospital. I have walked paths through woods and sat in the police station while an officer checked for any John Does, all the while… hunting for our Homer.

I told my buddy this week that I do not want to do that this year. My emotions can not go through digging in the back of buildings and smelling the air for any sign of a dead body. So Tuesday, he, Missy and I went apt. hunting.

We really got nowhere. The options we had just didn’t seem like Homer was comfortable with.

Many people do not understand how someone who has lived under a bridge in filth just wouldn’t jump at the chance to get in an apartment and be excited about it.

Change… Homeless people adapt! Plain and simple. Living out of a plastic bag becomes comfortable and even normal. Using simple things like deodorant, toothbrush, toilet paper, a chair become a blur of what reality is. To them it is forgotten and no longer exists.

After a very frustrating Tuesday we dropped Homer off and tried one last place which after talking to a few people seemed promising. This morning we caught back up with our man and told him about it.

He said he was on his way to see if his check came in and we would try to connect later this afternoon to maybe go look at this apartment. That was at 10:30.

At 1:30 this afternoon Missy and I pulled up to his bridge and sitting at the top of the hill that leads down to his camp was Homer sitting on the lid of a sewer cap that sits about a foot off the ground. He smiled and walked to the car.

His hands were trembling; because he hadn’t had a drink all day, when he held out his check and placed it in my hand. He wanted to get it cashed and to go look at those apartments. OH boy was I one happy person.

In less than an hour we cashed his check, went and looked at the apartment and Missy and I were driving to get him a money order for his first month rent while he filled out paperwork. He pays 450 a month for a very nice, small 1 bedroom furnished apartment with a kitchen and bathroom.

This includes water, electric, heat, air, plus cable TV. After he filled out the papers I suggested he go get a few beers and chill out while we went and bought simple toiletries that this man hadn’t used in years.

Tonight I went back to visit him to see how he was adjusting. I took towels and made his bed with the sheets Missy came back with. Homer cried when he saw his clean bed. I cried…

Today was a full day and actually very overwhelming for our dear sweet Homer.

Too much change, too quickly can often panic a homeless person. My husband always says that sometimes you have to move the piano an inch at a time to get it across the room. Today Homer moved about a foot so it’s time for him to adjust.

Tomorrow we’re going to take him shopping for some new clothes and shoes and he’ll still have money to buy some food.

Tonight he was telling Freddie something about going to the blood bank. Freddie stopped him and reminded him that he doesn’t have to go to the blood bank anymore. Homer stopped talking, looked at Freddie for a few seconds before he started to laugh and cry at the same time. His poor emotions are so raw… We’ll help him through.

Later this evening I drove past his apartment one last time before heading home and I glanced over at his door. There in a small group were a few people sitting in chairs and I looked closer and saw Homer sitting on the ground next to a chair.

I smiled and told Freddie, that it is just going to take some time for him to adjust…he doesn’t have to sit on the ground and he doesn’t even know it yet. Homelessness runs deep!

This morning I was up and early, eager to see how Homer fared through the night. I also had to find him a radio.

Pulling up in front of his apartment after finding the radio he wanted at Big Lots I could see through his shade that his kitchen light was on. I knocked on the door just as I heard the manager called to me from across the parking lot.

I waited while I heard my friend on the inside of the door fumble with the lock as the manager moved closer.

The door opened and I smiled real big as I told Homer I found a radio. He seemed excited but I quickly could tell he had not stopped drinking since I left him last night. His apartment air blew at me and I felt like I was standing under the Dillingham Street Bridge. He never changed his clothes.

I turned around and looked at the manager who now was behind me and he quietly spoke as he explained that he was having to make Homer move out. My emotions rushed from every single part of my being. I fought back tears as I stood there for 5 minutes hearing about last night. Homer was drunk and details don’t need to be explained…My buddy behaved like a homeless alcoholic and never knew he had his apartment to go into.

I thanked the man as I turned to see Homer still standing in the doorway with his TV playing in the background. He had on no shoes and he reminded me of a time when I received a call from my son’s school saying “You have to come pick up your son, he’s been expelled!” That sheepish look of one of my boys, knowing they were in trouble, but not really sure why.

I gently told him to get on his shoes. He only said…”I blew it didn’t I? I have to leave?” I told him yes, he had to leave. He took a small Wal Mart bag and began to put the few items he had into it as tears fell down his cheeks. He then looked at me and asked what he had done.

As I drove him back to his bridge he cried more as I tried to explain the details of his night before. He knew it was all true and only responded with… what is wrong with me, I had it so good.

That drive this morning only took about 5 minutes but seemed like an hour. I told him we did it backwards. First sober, then an apartment. I made sure he knew that I loved him and that I wasn’t done… we were still in his life and we were going to help him.

My husband found him later and they sat on a park bench trying to see where we all should go from here. He has money now for re-hab but as of today that doesn’t seem promising. He hasn’t stopped drinking all day.

We aren’t done with Homer, he is an alcoholic and he needs us in his life. We’re the only sanity he has. My heart breaks for him and my hope suddenly seems shattered, but God is still God.

Winter is coming and under a bridge it can get very very cold. I don’t want to see him on the streets, I don’t want to look for him behind buildings or lost off some trail in the woods. But it is my job isn’t it???

I assume they were at best family. Some looked worn as they ate out of boxes. Others seemed refreshed like they managed to slip away and grab some sleep along with a change of clothes.

I couldn’t help but think that all these people that surround me “know” what is wrong with whoever it is they are there to see. Me, Missy…they tell us nothing. We aren’t family. Frustrating.

Tuesday I was there to see Don alone. He had been in ICU about a week. The nursing home told Missy that he “crashed.” “Crashed?” I asked her. What is “Crashed?” Again just being allowed to be told simple basics, he was found unresponsive. Again I thought to myself “how could you tell?” He had been basically unresponsive for months…must be bad.

At 2:05 I went to the big double doors and picked up the phone hanging on the wall, when the doors swung open. Hanging up quickly I darted inside just as the doors swung shut.

I turned to my right, walking quickly so not to look into anyones room. I hate ICU. Tubes, machines, beeps… All rooms are behind glass with big sliding glass doors that stay always open. Nobody ever is awake and if they are their eyes try to connect to yours if you happen to glance their way. I always feel bad knowing if our eyes meet I see disappointment cast over them because (I guess) I’m not someone they know. I walk fast.

I turned left and passed 2 rooms and as I neared Dons room I could see he wasn’t the person in the bed. I kept walking and ended back at the big doors. Without a break in my step I hit the button on the wall that opens the doors and I flew out towards the elevator thinking…”did he die?”

In a second to second panic I stopped in the lobby downstairs and asked the man at the desk if the hospital had a Donald Brassell? Holding my breath as he typed his name onto the computer he looked up at me… He’s in 813.

Feeling foolish and still a bit shaken I went back down the long hall to the elevator and pushed the button again for the 8th floor.

His oxygen is no longer on but tubes…tubes are everywhere. He’s asleep… I stayed maybe 5 minutes and went home.

The only thing I managed to get out of a nurse when he was in ICU were his kidneys aren’t functioning properly. The reason for the swelling in his arms and legs.

Again today when we went to visit Don in 813 Missy and I walked to his door and could tell he wasn’t any longer in the room. I was much more calmer this time with Missy by my side and we stopped at the nurses desk. Again holding my breath and waiting for an answer we asked where he was? 827 she says.

I shake my head as we walk away wishing we had the respect that “the family” would get. If they change rooms or if someones condition changes, family is notified. We receive no calls. We are not family.

I have known Don for 7 years. He has had no contact with his family for several years. They knew he lived under a transmission shop. That was about it!

We fed Don. We cried/laughed with Don. I washed his clothes and took him bags of cat food for his many stray cats. We are all very close to the man. We know what he likes, what he doesn’t like. I have sat for hours listening to his stories. I miss him not being under the transmission shop. But… we are not family.

Missy and I stood and looked at Don as he slept in 327. It’s a private room. I looked at Missy and asked her if she would mind if we sat for a while with him. She pulled out a chair, we sat down.

After maybe 10 minutes, I saw his eyes open and I jumped up and raced to the side of his bed. I picked up the purple bear Missy and I brought him. I explained that we wanted him to have it. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Tears began to fill my eyes. I know my buddy Don may not be there tomorrow. I took that soft bear and I rubbed it on his arm, face and neck. He lays in so much stillness that by all appearances the look seems cold and hard.

Don isn’t hard. He’s so soft, so gentle. I wanted him not to feel a needle poking into his skin. Or someone having to shift and turn him. I wanted him to feel something soft and nice…Did he feel the sweep across his skin of something clean? I hope so, I sure hope so…

Between me and you, let me say thank – you. Thank-You God for where i sit today. A little better than where i sat yesterday. i’ve been so far gone. You know, living a lie ~ and wanting only to keep on living the lie to keep me from seeing the truth. So far down only death is what i wanted, and every time ”life” came thru my “lie” i only pushed that much harder. God i’ve called you out. i’ve cursed your name. i wanted in my sick mind to go toe to toe with you knowing i would lose. i wanted you to take me down. prove to me you were ugly and never loved me, yet here today i am sitting at this jail table seeing you loved me. You have remained God even when i became less than human.

~~~~~~Piece by piece i pray, You’ll reveal my weakness while on my knees i pray your character will be revealed. Who am i? that you call me by name? Who am i that you love me still the same? This is me- in 3′ D- show me you- shining through.~~~~~~ I want to fall in love with you, Rachel

I visited Rachel Sunday in the jail. Being on the ministers list I am able to go up into her cell block and have personal conversation for an hour.

Normally I share a message to the group of ladies but this Sunday afternoon was difficult, it was different. I walked through the second locked door after it popped and Rachel fell into my arms.

Word travels quickly on the streets as well as jail… before I entered the room most of the women knew I had a personal message for Rachel and it wasn’t in words, it was in my hug to let her know I was glad that she was alive.

There are several tables and stools cemented to the floor in each block of the Muscogee County Jail. At first my girl sat on the floor next to me. One of the ladies noticed and stood to give Rachel their seat so she could sit across from me. Rachel sat down.

For an hour I shared much of my own testimony. Trying with every breath that connected to my words to gently blow life back into so many shattered lives.

Several times I locked my eyes onto Rachel’s hoping to allow her to hear my heart. A heart that has wept for her while she ran away from hope for 5 months. Motel to motel, man to man, drug to drug…escaping reality. Desperately trying to end her life.

She told me to keep her story going… she said it makes her feel like this time has not been wasted. She gave me several days of notes to share with readers of my blog which I placed at the beginning. This particular day was day 7… I am sure the first day her mind cleared well enough to take thought with pen in hand and communicate it onto paper.

If I may at this point maybe explain a little behind what she wrote from bits of information I received from others.

One evening before her arrest Rachel loaded a needle full of dope. She walked outside into the night and looked up into the sky only to see stars dancing in the darkness.

She stood there looking up and began to scream at God! She challenged Him if you will; to kill her. Not wanting to live anymore the way that she had… she was finished and “alone”~ she wanted to die!

I imagine the sound of her tears caught heavens attention as she raised the needle and shoved it into her arm. Expecting death~ heaven heard as my God stood to look her way. Not anger nor contempt roared through the sky that night to wipe Rachel out. Only love.

A love my girl understood the day she sat in jail and wrote that short note on day 7. That love reaches to places that man is not willing to reach. A love that is obtainable if we allow the masters hand to guide our own. A love that helps me to see a shattered human being wanting to die. That love is why I do what I do.

What she asks me to share I will… I will in order to wake up people to the reality of the world beyond our perfect lives and pretty houses. It is a world where death is welcomed on a hot summer night because everything has flipped upside down and we find no answers. We turn around and see no one!

Yet in all that emptiness, God heard from heaven the challenge Rachel made to her maker to prove himself to her…to even us, that He isn’t what is always preached behind podiums across this world every Sunday… but He is a God that loves us in spite of who we become sometimes.

I have a lot of responsibility I have accepted from God concerning Rachel and her life. What I am asked to do I do for not only my girl but for every single other man who slips up on the edge of the bridge in the middle of the night or the lady sitting on the edge of her bed holding a pistol on her lap. I am asked to see…

I am hoping that part of Rachel’s recovery can happen with the help of my words on a blog. It is important to her people know.

Maybe by allowing people into her world that she can finally find her own spot here in this life to laugh again. A place that is safe from all the demons of her past… never to be scared again but to feel loved!